


Books and Trees

by Lunasong365, sous_le_saule



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Autumn, Bromance, Cold, Fluff, Illustrated, M/M, Reading, Sweet, Translation, Walks In The Woods, it's up to you, or love, well the title says it all
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-23
Updated: 2016-12-23
Packaged: 2018-09-11 06:07:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,488
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8960356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lunasong365/pseuds/Lunasong365, https://archiveofourown.org/users/sous_le_saule/pseuds/sous_le_saule
Summary: A story about books. And trees! Ha!
In short, this is a humble declaration of love to trees, that sometimes in their second lives are lucky enough to become pages in books that tell stories as good as Good Omens.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [Des livres et des arbres](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8633725) by [sous_le_saule](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sous_le_saule/pseuds/sous_le_saule). 



> Author's note:
> 
> This fic was inspired as a fusion between a magnificent fanart by Merildae, a quote from Carl Sagan, a forest I saw from the road, and a touching fic written for me by thedemonwithatypewriter, through which I became aware (yes, I am pretty slow), that the name of my blog (Books & Trees) is perfectly, albeit fortuitously, suited for our two idiots.
> 
> http://merildae.tumblr.com/post/153495094100  
> http://sous-le-saule.tumblr.com/post/153468677372  
> http://sous-le-saule.tumblr.com/post/153484922622  
> http://archiveofourown.org/works/8231188
> 
> The embedded artworks are used with the kind permission of the artists, with direct attribution links below.
> 
> Once again, I'm very grateful to Luna for her beautiful translation and relevant improvements! As usual, each of her words is perfectly chosen.
> 
> Translator's note: And I am grateful to sous-le-saule for her trust in me to handle with care!

In the backroom of the shop, the soft rustle of turning pages was only interrupted by the slow tick of a clock marking the passing seconds. A brisk wind easily breached the gaps in the old wooden window frame, but it was defeated by the heat of the stove before it could disturb the two readers sharing a sofa whose well-worn brown upholstery had seen better days.

[Artist: Merildae](http://merildae.tumblr.com/post/153495094100)

Crowley quickly scanned five or six pages, at which he vaguely frowned before flipping ahead to a more interesting passage. Aziraphale refrained from commenting.

Crowley was an erratic reader. He would not touch a book for several weeks, then devour a dozen in a few days, often juggling several at once. He read quickly, frequently forgetting most of the plot and half the names of the characters. Cheerfully and without remorse, he flipped through whole chapters, and often skipped to the end. And pity the work that did not capture his attention in the first ten pages; it was mercilessly abandoned in favor of another. It goes without saying that he’d then reproachfully return the offending volume to Aziraphale to re-shelve.

The angel would return the poor book to the shelf with a sorrowful face, but would not go so far as to pat it consolingly on its cover. He reserved that gesture for appeasing his own guilt when he abandoned a book, a decision he never took lightly and only as a last resort.

Aziraphale cherished the echo, and sometimes even the memory, of each writer’s unique voice and prosody. When he was alone, he often read phrases aloud in the empty bookshop to gauge their rhythm and sound. He did it in his head when the demon was reading at his side, which was happening more and more often. This was increasing difficult however, as Crowley was prone to mutter about implausible plot twists or insult characters who lacked common sense.

Startled from the universe of words and images created by the page, Aziraphale would suppress his reaction. Even though the demon’s literary habits sometimes annoyed him, he would not have denied himself the pleasure of observing his friend’s expressive mien when he was fully immersed in a captivating story. Or the prolonged discussions into the wee hours they shared of a communally-read volume, supplemented by a vintage unavailable to mere mortals.

He slowly turned a page, taking joy in the imperceptible crackling sound of the yellowed paper, appreciating the tactile sensation under his fingertips, breathing in the irresistible fragrance of wisdom and serenity. Other books emanated the scent of adventure, fiery emotion, precious knowledge, or even the whiff of scandal. But all these varied notes contained the same heady promise of hours of escape from this world and its happenings.

The angel’s peaceful reverie ended when Crowley’s legs began to twitch beneath his. The demon could remain still for hours – after all, he’d spent a century in bed – but inevitably, the moment would arrive when, like a cat that has slept too long, he had to jump up and dissipate his excess energy.

Crowley closed his book with a snap and tossed it on the table – it was a bestseller he’d purchased, inexorably, from another bookshop. To treat a book belonging to the angel in this manner invited a peril he’d rather avoid.

After haphazardly shifting Aziraphale’s legs off him in order to stand and stretch, the demon abruptly announced, “Enough paper for today. I want to see trees that are _alive_. Wanna come?”

Not so long ago, Crowley would have been perfectly happy to take his leave and stroll around a park or wood alone. But ever since Adam had sentenced them to _no meddling_ – not that they were complaining – the two supernatural beings were rarely apart. In response to Crowley’s petulance, Aziraphale carefully closed his own book, caressing the vellum pages bound with gilded interlacing. He put on his coat and draped two scarves around his neck. Invariably, after a few moments in the chilly outdoors, Crowley would accept one with a furtively appreciative nod, all the while grumbling that tartan was not his style.

The Bentley started with a purr. Once out of town and at full speed, she expressed her delight by blasting _Play the Game_ at full volume. After her resurrection, she’d lost her singular mania for playing Queen, and for a while the two beings had rejoiced in being able to listen to their favorite operas without fear of having left them too long in the glove box. But when Crowley had bought an album simply called _Queen – Greatest Hits_ , Aziraphale had conceded with a slight smile. Their outings hadn’t been the same without their accustomed soundtrack.

The demon parked the car in the access to a logging road. It had rained a lot the previous week and the ground was still muddy, the ruts puddled with water. Crowley’s snakeskin boots contacted the ground with a disgusted shudder, before remembering that their owner would absolve them from mud with a thought.

The last leaves of the oaks and maples clung to their branches with a valiant but futile resistance, while those that had surrendered under the combined assaults of frost, blustery gusts, and heavy showers had begun to decompose at the roots of their former sources of succor. They emanated a rich and moist fragrance, heady, yet at the same time a bit pungent. Upon this mosaic of browns and faded golds lay an occasional gem of alluring deep red. As they walked, Crowley would pluck these treasures and inspect them carefully. One or two perfect specimens found shelter in the inner pocket of his black coat – what he was saving them for was a mystery to Aziraphale. The others were released into the wind that swirled behind them.

The demon halted and slowly turned, head tilted, inhaling deeply. Pausing, he studied the rays of light that filtered diagonally through the treetops, listening to the wind whisper rumors of snow to the branches. Seeing him shiver, Aziraphale unbuttoned his coat to free the extra scarf, which he’d kept wrapped against his chest. He looped the warm muffler around Crowley’s neck, who took advantage of the moment to slide his chilled hands between the angel’s sweater and coat to warm them. _Why did they never think of bringing gloves?_ Aziraphale took the demon’s frozen fingers in his hands and raised them to his lips to blow warm air on them. Back at the bookshop, he would serve him hot cocoa in a large ceramic mug so that Crowley could wrap his numbed digits around the beverage until they regained normal color.

They resumed their stroll, hands in pockets, in the midst of a thicket of slender hazels and birches with striking white-with-black bark. Their emaciated cascades of yellow leaves tenaciously lingered in denial of the inevitable. Here and there a beech tree proudly flaunted its foliage of burnished brass against smooth gray bark, across which Crowley would caress his palm as he passed.

They meandered through a grove of spruce, whose straight trunks sliced the landscape into long vertical strips. The needles underfoot muffled their footsteps, reinforcing a comfortable silence they felt no need to break.

A small pond, nestled in a hollow, drew them in. A weeping willow’s soft, almost naked branches draped over the gently rippled surface against which Crowley skipped rocks. He weighed one, passing it back and forth in his hands, then said in a low voice:

“It’s too bad I’m limited to houseplants in my flat. I’d like to try to grow a tree.”

“You could move to a house with a garden,” remarked Aziraphale.

“The kind of human I try to be lives in a flat,” Crowley replied as he watched his projectile bounce a third time before sinking.

“How important is that now? You’re free to be whomever you want. We could find a cottage, in the south, with enough land for as many trees as you want.”

The subsequent pebble ricocheted at an odd trajectory and sank with a splash.

“We?”

Crowley’s expression was hidden behind his dark glasses, but his tone and smile betrayed surprised amusement. The extended silence was disturbed only by the skritchy noise of the two flat stones the demon pensively rubbed together in his hand. Aziraphale turned his head to conceal the reddened cheeks he could no longer solely attribute to the cold. He stared toward the center of the pond, prepared to receive the sarcastic rebuke, no doubt deserved, for his audacity.

The stones fell silent as the demon placed a tentative arm around Aziraphale’s shoulders and said, in a voice tinged with unexpected affection:

“And all the walls will be covered in books, angel.”

He skipped one last rock, a perfect quadruple bounce, whose gentle splashes reverberated in the silence. Aziraphale turned toward Crowley just in time to catch the demon’s sincere, unguarded smile.

[Artist: Ravibun](http://xxsymmetryxx.deviantart.com/art/Autumn-Chill-330117369)

**Author's Note:**

> We are very appreciative that Ravibun has also permitted us to use their relevant artwork!  
> http://ravibunart.tumblr.com/


End file.
